My Rival, My Temptation - Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Katherine’s POV
The room we entered wasn’t unsettling. Not at first glance.
It looked quite normal
And for me that was the unsettling part.
There was no boogeyman waiting for us here and I doubted that my husband would murder me in what looked like just a regular boardroom. A long, polished table stretched across the center, surrounded by chairs. The lighting was soft and even, casting a gentle glow over the space. The walls were exposed brick, the kind that probably looked stylish upstairs in the café, but down here, it felt…wrong. Like it was trying too hard to look ordinary.
The air smelled faintly of coffee, but underneath that was something colder. Sharper. Or maybe that was just my paranoia speaking after watching too many crime documentaries.
Everywhere was spotless and quiet and yet, it felt like I shouldn’t have come here.
Why did a café have a boardroom hidden in its basement?
And not just any boardroom, a private one. No windows. Only one door.
The whole setup felt wrong, like someone had tried to scrub away the evidence of what usually happened here. Meetings, sure. But what kind of meetings?
And what kind of man needed to hold them underground?
Sitting at the far end of the table was someone I didn’t recognize. Mid-forties, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes. He glanced at me once, then dismissed me entirely, pouring himself a glass of wine with the kind of practiced ease that implied he had all the time in the world but none of the patience.
Nikolai pulled out a chair at the head of the table, the legs scraping softly against the floor. The sound felt deafening in the quiet room. He patted the seat once, a soft thump of his palm against leather. “Sit.”
I frowned. “Excuse me?”
His gaze slid to mine, his brows raised like he wasn’t expecting me to not obey. “You heard me.”
My spine stiffened. “I’m not a dog.” The words slipped out in a sharp whisper, my glare narrowing into daggers.
“No.” His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “But you are mine.”
I froze. Not from fear, but from the way his voice curled around the syllables like smoke, wrapping around me in a way that made the room feel warmer and colder all at once. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a taunt. It was a claim. One that slid over my skin and settled into my bones, dark and possessive.
The worst part? It worked.
My heart skipped and I clenched my jaw, trying to shove the feeling away, but his stare pinned me in place. Every inch of me itched to fight back, to stand my ground and prove I wasn’t some pawn for him to move around as he pleased.
But this didn’t feel like the time or place for such. Not when we had an audience.
I dropped into the chair, tilting my chin higher to make sure he knew I was sitting on my own terms. Not because he told me to.
Nikolai’s smile deepened, slow and victorious, like he’d just won a game. He slid into the seat beside me, moving with the kind of quiet confidence that made the air feel heavier. His legs spread wide, taking up space like he owned it–like he owned everything–and the shift brought his thigh flush against mine. The warmth of him bled directly into my exposed thigh, my short skirt riding high on my hips and I sucked in a sharp breath.
As if that wasn’t enough, his arm draped across the back of my chair, casual and possessive. His fingers curled around my shoulder, light and deceptively gentle. But there was no mistaking the intent behind his touch. It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t affectionate. It was a claim.
Showing the man seated across from us that I belonged to him.
I sat rigid, refusing to lean into him, but his warmth was impossible to ignore. My breath felt shallower. Every nerve stood on edge. He wasn’t squeezing. He didn’t need to. His hand around me felt like a warning. Or a reminder.
I wasn’t sure which.
The man across the table sipped his wine, eyes finally drifting back to me, lingering this time. There was curiosity there, sharp and assessing like he was trying to decide what kind of creature had wandered into his den.
I guessed he’d never seen a woman in multicolored chaotic clothes before.
“This is the wife?” His accent was thick. Italian.
Nikolai didn’t even glance at me. His gaze stayed locked on the man. “She is.”
There was no warmth in his tone. No pride. Just cold possession. Like I was a piece of furniture he’d acquired, something to be labeled and catalogued, not a person.
The man chuckled, low and amused. “I had heard you’d gotten married, but I didn’t believe it.” He leaned back, swirling the dark liquid in his glass, watching me over the rim. “Well, you are bold, Volkov. Bringing her here.”
“She goes where I go.” Nikolai’s voice was smooth, quiet, but it cut through the air like a knife. His thumb brushed over my shoulder, the soft stroke sending a ripple of heat through my skin. I wasn’t sure if it was meant to be reassuring or proprietary. Either way, it made me want to bite him.
The man’s eyes narrowed, sharp as glass. “Does she know what today’s meeting is about?”
“She doesn’t need to.”
My frown deepened. “Excuse me…”
Nikolai’s fingers tightened around my shoulder. Just once. A silent warning.
The conversation shifted, the air in the room cooling as they moved onto business. Shipments. Routes. Numbers. Names. I didn’t understand half of what they were saying because they switched between English and what I was certain was Italian, but I understood the tension. The undercurrent of danger.
Every sentence between them felt like a chess move. And Nikolai? He played like a man who’d already won.
I watched him, stealing glances out of the corner of my eye while pretending to not care about their conversation. He was a living contradiction. Calm but dangerous. Relaxed but coiled tight beneath the surface. When he spoke, the man listened. When he smiled, the man tensed.
It was intoxicating, the way he commanded the room.
This was Nikolai Volkov in all his glory.
The man I’d read about in business articles, the one who climbed his way to the top before most people even figured out what they wanted to do with their lives. Twenty-six years old and already a force to be reckoned with. Ruthless. Calculated.
Seeing it in print was one thing. Watching it unfold right in front of me was another. If I didn’t know him–hadn’t grown up following him and his brother around until we became enemies–I would’ve sworn he was older. Not just by three years and some months, but by lifetimes. He carried himself with the kind of authority that felt like he’d lived for centuries.
He didn’t demand attention, he commanded it. Without raising his voice. Without lifting a finger.
It was almost easy to forget the childish, insufferable side he seemed to reserve exclusively for me. Almost.
And me? I sat frozen, pulse hammering in my throat, realizing that the man beside me–the same one who had once taught me how to pick locks–wasn’t just some over-privileged rich boy who liked to get his way.
He was dangerous. In a way I didn’t understand. In a way I wasn’t sure I wanted to understand.
And as the words continued to fly between him and the stranger across the table, unease prickled at the back of my neck because I finally caught on to what they were bargaining about.
They were talking about weapons.